


The Insecurity Condition

by SparksOfDesire



Series: Little!John [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Bathing/Washing, Caregiver!Sherlock, Crying, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Little Headspace, Love Confession, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Canon Compliant, Wetting, daddy!sherlock, little!john, minor injury, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksOfDesire/pseuds/SparksOfDesire
Summary: Sherlock has a run: There's an abundance of good cases to solve.John's happy for him.Really, he is.So what if things get kind of lonely, and John could sort of use some little time...But he's fine.Really.Until he isn't.***Don't like age-play, don't read. No hard feelings.





	The Insecurity Condition

**Author's Note:**

> This took so long and I don't even know why, sorry!

**John**

John Watson was having a bad day.

He stared at Sherlock’s head intently, his partner- as per usual- several steps ahead of him on the unsteady path they were trotting along. A chilly breeze caught the doctor off guard and his injured leg gave a pitiful throb.

 

Scratch that.

John Watson was having a bad week.

“Sherlock-“ he started what must have been the tenth time in the past hour, only to be ignored by the man in question; who was all post-case adrenaline and billowing coat. The case had been a complete success, but the circumstances were less than ideal; leading them to a show-down somewhere at the arse end of nowhere in a forest. The culprit was caught, Sherlock got to be brilliant, hurray, everybody go home. Except that this particular case had Lestrade outsourced in bloody Liverpool and Sherlock had managed to insult all the present officers so severely, that nobody had offered them a ride home.

This is how John found himself walking through a darkening forest on an unforgiving cold late afternoon; at least another twenty minutes’ walk away from any scope of any cab around London. That, if they were actually walking in the right direction; which at this point, John wasn’t even remotely sure of.

Sherlock had gotten royally pissed when John had pointed out to him that they seemed to be lost, and Sherlock proceeded to ignore him and walked even faster.

 

John had tackled a guy outside of Sherlock’s sightline, which lead his bad leg to be heavily bruised, probably swollen. Anyhow, it hurt like a bitch and walking around in the cold did nothing to improve its state.

But Sherlock didn’t know that, because Sherlock hadn’t even looked at John closely enough today to deduce anything (there was be a hell lot to deduce) about John’s state; which hurt the pride of his partner enough to be stubborn about it and not tell him he was injured (or minutes away from a very humiliating breakdown).

 

Scratch that, too.

John Watson was having a bad month.

It had started out good. Great, actually. After the morning at Greg’s, Sherlock and John discussed some rules and boundaries for their age-play dynamic- a conversation, which John left feeling very reassured and understood by his partner. He had stayed little the whole day before that and felt refreshed in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The desire to be little subsided the following week, with having busy but gratifying work days and lovely date-nights with Sherlock, who poured all his attention onto their relationship, because of the total lack of cases.

It didn’t take long for the cases to keep coming again, though.

And boy, did they come.

It started with John waking up to a cold bed on a rainy Wednesday morning, with a sticky note attached to Sherlock’s pillow: ‘A five. Back at noon. -SH’.

He wasn’t.

Turned out, the five was closer to a strong 7.5.

The solve took Sherlock six days and left him in high spirits.

 

John was happy that Sherlock was happy- being crammed at home made his genius boyfriend crawl up the wall with boredom- although he had to admit he missed spending time with Sherlock, after having him exclusively to himself for a whole week.

But it was fine, the doctor told himself, there was still plenty of time afterwards.

 

Except, that there wasn’t. Not even two days later, Mycroft came around with a case of ‘outmost importance’- something about a suspicious suicide of some Canadian ambassador- that _thrilled_ Sherlock to such an extend that Mycroft didn’t even have to persuade him to take it.

John meanwhile was becoming a little restless.

He had his job and since the case was a matter of ‘foreign politics’, he wasn’t included in its solving (which was _fine_ , he told himself). His partner was keeping strange hours, enthralled by the mystery of the case, which resulted in him barely seeing Sherlock at all. It was Sherlock’s thing, it was what he did- but John kind of missed him, maybe, a bit (a lot).

 

This case took two weeks to finish.

By the end of it, John was pretty agitated, sleeping more restlessly in their big shared bed all on his own, growing exhausted and weary.

As an add-on, the stress was making him crave some little time.

 

Ella had explained to him that regular play-session would work wonders for his stress levels, anxiety, and PTSD-fallouts.

They had been doing alright with the regular thing; mostly it just happened unscheduled when they were both up to it.

But now, it had been four weeks already and John started to experience a deep longing in his heart, that manifested in sadness and frustration whenever he sat down to eat his dinner alone, trotted in front of the telly alone, and fell asleep very alone.

 

Naturally- because John Watson was a master at being unnecessarily hard on himself- he chided himself for these emotions; sternly assessing that he wasn’t dependent on age-play or anything, that he didn’t need it to feel alright. He hadn’t needed it in all those years before, he would do without it for a while longer just fine, thank you very much.

 

When Lestrade called with the murder which had lead them to wander around like idiots in a forest, John was pretty fed-up.

But Sherlock was so excited yet again- after going quite some time without any decent cases- John just didn’t have the heart to ruin this for him.

He knew that only one word from him would have been enough to call this whole thing off, but just the thought of calling to such desperate measures made guilt churn in his stomach. This- solving cases, solving mysteries- was what Sherlock loved, what Sherlock was _born to do_. Who was he, to deny him the thing that came to his partner so naturally?

 

It was a joy to watch Sherlock work, and he came along to this case as much as his ridiculously full schedule at the surgery (since two other doctors had called in sick for the week) allowed him.

But.

John quickly realized that spending time with Sherlock _on a case_ was very much different from spending time with Sherlock _as a partner_.

Sure, Sherlock was _there,_ and Sherlock _talked_ to him, but…

He was fucking lonely, okay?

And sometimes, sometimes he just wanted a hug or a cuddle, but that was a very inappropriate thing to ask for while being at a crime scene or in the middle of an interrogation.

 

So, he sucked it up. Soldiered on, stomped the feelings deep down.

Ella wasn’t pleased with him at all. Ella told him that it was self-destructive to ignore his desires for so long and so severely, that it would lead to an increase of all his mental health problems.

John thought she was laying it on a bit thick.

He was _fine_.

A bit more stressed than usual, yes, and sleeping poorly the past nights, and falling back into the weird eating habits he had developed while Sherlock had been gone- but he was _fine_.

Really.

 

John heaved a big sigh as Sherlock increased the pace yet again, most likely annoyed with the world and too high on post-case adrenaline to be civil about it. The doctor clenched his teeth as a violent flare of pain shot through his leg, which made him wobble dangerous before regaining his footing.

Sherlock just continued walking and- alright, that was making him really, really feel like crap now.

Why was Sherlock being so mean?!

John didn’t do anything wrong and John was hurt and cold and-

 

The doctor sucked in a hard breath when he heard the faint crinkle of the pull-up he wore underneath his clothes, the pull-up which had been wet for approximately ninety minutes. The guy had tackled him mercilessly and he had struggled the whole day, so when a hard blow landed on his abdomen, his bladder had just given way. The utter embarrassment of wetting himself, maybe not on purpose but while being fully _conscious_ , while he was wearing a fucking pull-up because he didn’t even trust himself anymore, _almost had been_ the final straw. It took all of John’s energy to not just loose it right then and there. It was a pretty close call.

He bit his lip and willed himself to not slip, although he had been on the verge of slipping for hours now.

 

Alright.

He wasn’t fine.

Not even a little bit.

 

The night before had been an absolute nightmare and had John feeling in-between and vulnerable all day (which, now that he thought about it, could be the reason why the guy had gotten so close to him to actually hurt him in the first place).

The endless days of suppressed needs had finally reared their ugly head at around three in the morning. John had fallen into a restless slumber, tormented by bad dreams. Sherlock wasn’t next to him, but that wasn’t a surprise. He had actually taken to sleeping in his own room again roughly four days prior, after not being able to take the disappointment in inhabiting their shared space on his own. It would be easier in his room, he told himself, because he had been alone in there for _years_.

It wasn’t.

 

He woke up with a desperate gasp for air and _immediately_ became hyper-aware of the wet warmth between his thighs.

He hadn’t wet the bed.

He was _wetting_ it.

“No. No, no, no! Shit!”

With a flare of desperate panic, John clambered his legs together violently to stop the flow, but it was a loosing battle. His bladder throbbed as it emptied itself, soaking his pants and the bedding. The fabric clung to his skin immediately, now soggy and heavy and _gross_.

John’s heart was beating in his throat.

It was like a very heavy animal- maybe an elephant- had sat down on his chest, constricting his breathing, elevating his pulse. He became light-headed and nauseous from the shock of it. There was a roaring in his ears and a burning in his eyes. For several minutes, he was so overwhelmed with the situation that he could do nothing more than sit in and stare at his own mess.

He didn’t cry.

He had dignity.

Even after pissing himself.

 

He didn’t cry when he took off his wet boxer shorts and (now naked from the waist down) stripped his bedding and flipped the mattress (even though it hadn’t taken any damage). He didn’t cry when he carried the wet fabrics down to the washing room (still mostly naked, since Mrs. Hudson was at her sister’s for the week) or when he started up the washing machine. He didn’t cry when he passed Sherlock’s (…their) empty bedroom while he trotted to the bathroom. He didn’t cry when he turned the shower as hot as it would go and stood under the spray until his skin was burning and prickly. He didn’t cry when he sneaked into Sherlock’s (…their) bedroom, opened the drawer where they kept his little things and pulled out the packet of pull-ups (never used since the night over at Greg’s flat).

 

The feeling of soft cotton encasing his crotch broke something inside of him.

 

He was sitting in front of Sherlock’s queen-sized bed (too deep into his irrational fears of another accident to dare getting _on_ the bed), wrapped in Sherlock’s blue dressing gown, which he had found flung carelessly over the nightstand, and buried his face against the soft teddy bear, which Sherlock had bought for little him; the bear he had never gotten around to name, which somehow made the situation _far_ worse.

Silent tears filled to his eyes and spilled over his face- unrelenting and quiet like London rain in April.

He had been taught to cry silently if he had to. He had been told to avoid it all costs, because crying was weakness. He had been told to be a brave boy, a brave man, a brave soldier- brave people didn’t cry. He never had allowed Sherlock to see him cry; not even when his PTSD crippled him, not even when that one thug had broken his wrist during a case, not even when he was emotionally vulnerable because he was little. He had allowed himself some dry sobs, yes, and couldn’t stop tears of frustration to gather in his eyes- but he had never allowed Sherlock to _see_ (even though he knew that Sherlock had known every single time).

The fur against his cheeks grew damp.

 

How he wished Sherlock would see, now.

How he wished Sherlock was here with him.

How he wished he wasn’t so pathetic and alone and how he wished that he wasn’t _like this_.

But that’s not how it works. Come on.

Let it go.

 _Brave boys don’t cry_.

 

He had been strong, once. A soldier. A _captain_. People had looked up to him, people had trusted him, people had put their faith in him. If they would see him now…

His parents had been proud, _always proud_ , because John had been the good kid, the proper kid- not the deviant, the rebellious one like Harry was. Somebody had to do a good job, and John had taken onto the role naturally. Always the good kid, the quiet kid, the grown-up kid.

Helping his mum when dad left; left with another woman, left and returned and left again; every meeting filled with promises the man didn’t keep- he was ten when he realized that his dad didn’t really want to be a dad and was doing a poor job at it.

Somebody had to be the grown-up one, somebody had to take care of his mum, somebody _had to_ \- and he spent all his life making up for the failures of the people around him- dad’s absence, Harry’s alcoholism, mum’s loneliness.

Always the over-achiever, the popular one in school and with the girls- John Watson, everybody’s golden boy: rugby captain, valedictorian in medical school, _army captain_. Working himself to the bone trying to please; Maybe just to fill a gaping emptiness in his chest.

_‘Look at me, now.’_

A grown man pretending to be a kid.

(Ella had told him that he shouldn’t think like this, that he wasn’t a failure because of his desires, that every aspect of his being made him to the valuable character that he was, that he shouldn’t hate himself because of things that made him happy; but Ella wasn’t here now. John was alone. Alone with these thoughts eating away on him, clawing at his self-worth, tearing him to shreds. _Look at you. A baby. A worthless, helpless, pathetic baby. Look. At. You._ )

 

When Mary announced her pregnancy (it felt like decades ago), John hadn’t been as happy as he was supposed to be. The prospect of being a father had terrified him; overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been ready. He would never be ready; he couldn’t be a father. Not when he, a man pushing forty, was clinging to a stuffed animal and relied on a younger, much more capable man to _baby_ him. Because being an adult apparently was too much of a struggle these days. How, _why_ , someone as brilliant and strong as Sherlock put up with him- he didn’t know. He was old and broken and a fucking child- a child that was pissing itself after a nightmare, a child that wanted cuddles and its Daddy’s attention.

It was disgusting and weak and _true_ ; so true that John’s chest burned yet he couldn’t stop crying.

 

He didn’t stop crying until the sun rose over the rooftops, and Sherlock texted him a location.

He went through the usual motions of getting ready numbly, as if he was concealed behind a thick veil. He put on another pull-up because the thought of leaving without it made him spiral into a panic attack. Whether it was out of real concern or through means of cruel self-punishment, John couldn’t tell anymore. When he arrived at the location, Sherlock didn’t even spare him a look (already deep in deduction mood, barking orders at everyone around him) and John felt like he deserved it.

 _Look at you_.

_Come on._

_Let it go_.

 

The doctor stopped walking, the pressure on his injury too much to bear; the pressure of the situation sitting on his shoulders and pulling him, down, down, down a dark hole of self-pity (he would need an extended session with Ella as soon as possible. It was frankly terrifying to him how easily he slipped back into self-destructive thought patterns and how hard he found it to fight himself back out of them).

The wet pull-up reminded him vividly of his failures as a person, of his weaknesses, of _all his broken parts_. He was a burden. He was slowing them down. He was slowing Sherlock down. How long until Sherlock would stop humoring him about this little game? This silly little game. Child’s play.

By the looks of it, Sherlock had already stopped humoring him (or maybe stopped caring about him altogether- John shivered as he recalled all the mornings to an empty bed and nights without company, all the chaste kisses barely longer than a breath, all the silence- the silence now and the distance between them. John was struggling to keep up. He really tried. But he couldn’t.)

 

“Sherlock-“

“ _Yes, John_ , I’m aware that we’re lost; _yes, John_ , I’m aware that it is due to my- as you so charmingly put it- ‘lack of verbal filter’; but instead of whining maybe you could at least try to keep up while I’m making a valuable attempt to get us out. Of. These. Fucking. Woods.”

His partner’s sharp tone felt more like a kick in the gut- violent and sudden, and extremely painful (John knew he was overreacting. John knew that Sherlock was just riding out his high, testing his boundaries like he liked to do after a period of time when his mind had been titillated constantly. John knew Sherlock didn’t mean any harm, was frustrated by him at best. He knew. But that didn’t change a thing.)

 

John wanted to scream until the pressure around his heart would ease, but he couldn’t; instead, a fresh wave of tears sprung into his eyes- tears of hurt and frustration and a deep sadness that hit him like a slap in the face. Maybe Sherlock didn’t love him anymore.

Had Sherlock loved him in the first place?

They never said…

What if their relationship had always designed to end like this: Just a fling, just a game until Sherlock caught the next thrill of adventure, of mystery; a romance with a termination date?

No…

Or yes.

John didn’t know and couldn’t tell, and everything hurt- especially breathing, the cold air piercing his lungs like tiny ice-needles. He wanted to be _home_ , he wanted to be _little_ , he wanted _Sherlock to look at him_.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. Everything stopped. Finally- _finally_ – he turned around, blue eyes calmly deducing him.

There it was.

The final straw.

 

**Sherlock**

The past month, Sherlock had been on a roll. The cases had been extraordinary, thrilling and hard to solve; a combination that left him giddy and thrumming with energy. Every new one had been better than the last; exquisite stimulation for his ever-shifting mind.

He was drunk on the power, his own genius, _the addictiveness_ of it all.

 

It was only understandable that after such a winning streak, he had become a tad careless, feeling perhaps a bit daring- and overstepped a line (or several, truthfully).

The backlash came right away.

The great Sherlock Holmes lost in the woods.

 

This wouldn’t have happened if Lestrade had been with them. Lestrade would have still given them a ride home (and would have chided Sherlock gently about his behavior in the safety of his car, reminding him that not everybody was a genius and that he needed to be patient with them; but also that he did good- and Sherlock would suck up the extra-praise greedily, because he thrived of being excellent and _making people aware_ that he was excellent).

But Lestrade wasn’t here.

Lestrade was in Liverpool.

 

And John- well John might have been in Liverpool as well, judging by the amount of help he was offering to get out of this situation. It had been Sherlock’s fault, admittedly. But Sherlock always could rely on John to get him out of trouble, to take on any new adventure with a fond sigh of exasperation and a clear head. John was a soldier. Would be a good timing to pull out some of those soldier survival skills to help them find their way out.

 

He didn’t mean to snap at him like that. He was just frustrated and angry at himself, that his brilliant solve was ending on such a sour note. But he knew John would understand. John always understood him (and he had missed him, in those moments where his mind had a minute of rest, it always wandered to his partner; looking forward to… to now, when they had some time to themselves. Which they could make the most of. But didn’t. Because there was a tension between them that Sherlock only just now realized; he had been too focused on the cases before).

Still. No reason to make this more difficult, right?

 

The footsteps behind him stopped.

They were a mere hour away from sun-down and the wind was picking up. Certainly not the place or time to stop, to rest, to _take a break_. Sherlock’s mind was itching with something he couldn’t place- the overwhelming feeling that he was _missing something_. It made him irritated, sitting there like an open wound over his genius. Over his success.

Sherlock wasn’t very good in controlling his emotions, always drawn to extremes- either feeling too much or nothing at all. Ever since he met John- had been with John- he was feeling constantly. Overwhelmingly.

He couldn’t understand why he was so damn annoyed with John of all people- John didn’t dump them in the woods, John didn’t even complain now that he thought about it. John just shuffled behind him and said his name and was infuriating because he wasn’t like himself at all and-

 

Oh.

Sherlock stopped, too.

The thing he’d been missing- the final riddle gnawing away on him the whole day.

It didn’t have to do with the case.

It was _John_.

 

Something about John.

But what?

He had been walking slowly; Sherlock had taken the toll the colder weather took on his partner’s psychosomatic woes into account; presumed they were the reason why John was so damn slow on his feet.

Now, that he thought about it longer than the fraction of a second, he doubted his own assessment profoundly. He hadn’t even taken the time to _observe_ , had relied on the easiest explanation like an idiot. Yet all signs pointed to the unusual instead of the usual- all the signs he ignored in favor of stroking his own swollen ego.

There had been no need for them to accompany Scotland Yard today- he had given Lestrade all the clues and evidence he needed, today had been nothing but foot-work, simple exercises they would have managed without him. But he had been so drunk on proofing to everybody what they already knew; was too drunk to care and he had pulled John- good, faithful John, who had been working himself to the bone at the surgery lately- out of his first free day in weeks only to be lost in the woods; another sacrifice to his all-consuming mind.

 

Guilt overcame him like a sudden down-pour; he had been working himself to the bone, too. Somewhere along in the network of mysteries he had lost track of himself and of John; letting himself be consumed by the lure, the chase, the excitement.

Before the fall, Sherlock would have given his arm for a streak like this, for the exquisite adrenaline-fueled existence from case to case.

But Sherlock was different, now.

Or, so he thought.

Apparently, addictive brain-structures were hard to overcome. The rush- as consuming as heroin.

 

Still, he was different.

He had John. He had John in a way he never experienced before, a way that left him feel out of his depth most of the time. But he knew, he just did, that he had a responsibility towards his partner, which he disgustingly neglected in the past days. Weeks. _Month_.

 

He had been so lost in himself that he overlooked the thing right in front of him- the most important thing; the thing, the person whose existence had been the only thing keeping him sane during endless nights in Serbia. The person he loved with every fiber of his being- so unconditionally that it _hurt_ sometimes; his best friend, his partner, his lover, his little, his _John_. His.

The single best damn thing in his life- when was the last time they had shared a bed or a kiss or even more than a minute of intimacy? When was the last time they had played?

He couldn’t, he couldn’t even remember (but he remembered, almost violently, how absolutely undone John had been the night they had entered their new dynamic; how on edge John had been after ten days with the bare minimum of affection. To think about how he must be feeling now, after _thirty days_ , knocked the breath out of Sherlock’s lungs. Christ. Hadn’t he told Greg he would find a way to fuck this up?)

When was the last time he had _looked at John?_

 

He turned, slowly, and began calculating the moment his eyes rested on his partner, standing some feet away.

John was hunched over and gripping his leg- which, Sherlock now realized- had been injured sometime during the case; and it was his bad leg, too. He must have been in pain for almost their entire detour through the forest, hence slowing John down considerably.

The hand clutching the trouser-fabric was shaking- either from cold and low blood-sugar, most likely both; since, now that he focused on it, Sherlock realized that John had been eating poorly the past couple of days (this day no exception), a habit the doctor had developed during Sherlock’s time in Serbia; a habit that was extremely concerning. With Sherlock, it was his modus operandi- he just forgot to eat when John didn’t keep him in check- but John seemed to deliberately starve himself when in deep emotional distress.

The skin peeking out from the jacket sleeve was dry and ashen, so John hadn’t been sleeping well, either. The more signs of obvious self-neglect Sherlock discovered, the more worried he became.

 

It wasn’t like John couldn’t take care of himself.

He could.

Even if he was at his lowest point, he had managed.

But what was concerning was the willing openness to neglect self-care in favor of being consumed by… what, exactly? Loneliness, perhaps. (John must feel lonely. Everybody would feel lonely after being treated like this by your partner for so long. Even Sherlock could understand this, and loneliness was otherwise a foreign concept to him.)

 

The way John held his posture switched all the other pieces into place. Sherlock had John only once seen bending his hips in such a peculiar angle. The night when he had worn a pull-up for bed.

Conclusion: John was wearing a pull-up, right in this moment.

This realization was probably the most startling out of them all. Although admittedly terrible, everything else wasn’t really new. But this- _this_ was something that had never happened before. The doctor, even when little, hadn’t expressed the desire to wear a pull-up again. On the contrary, he had been humiliated and ashamed by even the prospect of wearing it (even around the flat, when it was just the two of them). Something of immense proportions must have occurred without Sherlock’s presence that had been enough to shake John’s confidence to the core.

The fear of wetting- at its most basic level- was a fear of loss of control, of vulnerability. Ella had told him (for he had had phone conversations with her, conversations he kept from John out of fear of upsetting his partner). To be anxious enough to surrender to an action he was so unsure about, so ashamed by, was highly unlikely for a strong-willed person like his John.

Had John been… little?

In his absence?

During the case?

_Right now?_

His partner had held his head bowed, and only when Sherlock took a tentative step towards him, John lifted his chin and their eyes locked. Red-rimmed. Puffy. Dry skin. Blotchy redness around the pronounced dark circles.

Conclusion: John had been crying in his absence for a prolonged period of time.

Why?

 

He had been away the whole night.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what had happened.

Sherlock’s heart clenched painfully in his chest.  An accident was hard enough. But this time, John had been all alone. All alone and probably, most certainly little.

And, oh, how it struck him, as he watched in almost slow-motion of his partner’s face scrunched up in an effort to keep the unshed tears gathering in his eyes from falling, how he scrubbed violently over his face but it was no use- they spilled and drip, drip, dripped against his cheeks all the way down to his chin.

They had known each other for years.

Sherlock had never seen his John cry like this.

Not even when little. Not even when hurt. Not even when heart-broken. _Never_.

 

Sherlock’s mouth went dry and his pulse picked up several notches. There was something blocking his throat what must have been the size of a stone.

Regular age-play was a necessity for John’s mental-health, Ella had said. It was something he just needed as a way to de-stress, to let go. A way to heal. Sherlock couldn’t help John with defending his demons. But at least he could have helped in making John _heal_.

 

Instead he- like the cruel, cold-hearted bastard everybody tells him constantly that he is- had ran off to chase his own benefits. His own thrill. His, and his only. Insatiable. Stupid. Destructive.

_‘The Work will always be an essential part of my life, John. It’s… it’s something I need.’_

_‘I know, Sherlock. I wouldn’t want to change a damn thing about you. Everything about you is what makes you to this insufferable, amazing person that I want to spend the rest of my life with. God help me, Sherlock, you’re a mad-man. But you’re my mad-man.’_

But there was a key-difference, wasn’t there?

Between doing what you need and letting your life be controlled by it, right?

Sherlock had always had troubles with regulation- it was a strange concept to him. He used to live for the moment of being consumed.

 

But this wasn’t right.

John needed _him_.

The Work was important. But John was important, too. He could have spent the past couple of months working out a balance between the two but he hadn’t, because he had been arrogant about it.

 

“I just want to go home. Please, Sherlock.”

Quiet words, spoken with visible strain, were enough to get Sherlock out of his brain, out of his circle of criticism about the past and into the present. He hadn’t been there for John, not at all. Not even a little bit.

But he could do better. Starting right now.

 

He was at John’s side in a flash, wrapping himself around his partner- who was shaking and fighting off his headspace with all of his might- like a blanket, hoping to create a cocoon of warmth around them.

 

“Don’t fight it, love. It’s okay. I’m right here. Daddy’s right here.”

The words send John into an honest-to-God fit of violent sobs. Sherlock hoped they were because of relief but he had the sinking suspicion that a strong part of John had developed an unhealthy relationship to his unusual coping mechanism. John had always been ashamed to a certain degree but had taken on age-play beautifully otherwise. He had accepted being little as a part of who he _was_.

Something that was needed shouldn’t hurt so bad. Something that was providing happiness shouldn’t be an issue of anxiety. Being little shouldn’t feel like a failure. Yet, Sherlock just knew that these thoughts were dominating his partner’s mind. While he had been busy running after criminals, John’s self-doubts had run havoc. Maybe- maybe if Sherlock had stopped- just once _stopped to take a look over his shoulder_ \- John wouldn’t have to deal with these troubling emotions. 

 

“I’m sorry I can’t be big. I’m so, so sorry. I- I’ll try harder-“

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock interjected while the lump in his throat grew, but John barely noticed him over his own hitching breaths.

“Just don’t… _don’t leave me_ , Daddy; I _promise_ -“

 

“Don’t.”

Sherlock gently took his partner’s face between his palms and forced the other to look at him. There was a storm brewing in those blue eyes; a battle between John’s headspaces.

“Don’t even say something like that,” Sherlock whispered again, with more urgency. His own voice quivered with emotion.

“I’m not leaving. God, John. I should be the one apologizing and begging you to stay with me. I’ve been awful to you.”

The lack of protest, although expected, still felt devastating.

 

John didn’t last very long; the intense eye-contact and the gentleness which he had lacked for so long proven too much for his exhausted body. The tears he had tried to stop just kept coming, with even more force now.

“I miss you,” he stuttered between pitiful sobs, his voice wavering somewhere between big and little. “I miss you so much.”

Sherlock’s heart _broke_.

 

“I miss you and I hate myself for it, ‘m so fucking weak and pathetic, it’s disgusting-“

Sherlock didn’t give John one more chance to get another self-depriving adjective out. Watching his man- this strong, wonderful man- verbally destroy himself over mistakes that weren’t even his was much more than Sherlock could take. And God help him, he could take a lot.

Torture was nothing compared to watching John Watson suffer because of him. _Again_.

 

He captured John’s mouth in a kiss. A desperate and soft kiss; a kiss in which he poured all the feelings he couldn’t voice, all the thoughts and doubts and words to show John. It was pure chaos and bliss, and only after a second, his partner opened his mouth to let him in. When their tongues touched- very gently- and the familiar taste of John invaded Sherlock’s senses, he felt the noose around his neck loosen. It was messy in every sense of the word- John was still crying and clinging to him like a drowning man and the cold wind tousled their hair. It was harsh, and it was beautifully real.

They parted mere inches for air- John’s shuddering breath washing in warm, wet waves over Sherlock’s lips. The battle of headspaces was momentarily laid to rest.

The detective rested his forehead against John’s, both of them now chilled to the bone, and restlessly caressed his long fingers over John’s cheeks, eyebrows, jaw; rubbing away the wetness that was gathering relentlessly.

In that moment, his senses were invaded by everything that was John- the texture of his skin, the smell of his collar, the sound of his heartbeat- and before he could think, before he could do anything really, he made a decision.

 

They had been avoiding it for way too long.

You see, a relationship was a fragile thing. More so when a relationship had been battered and broken and fixed as many times as theirs. Nothing could be taken for granted, nothing was guaranteed, never.

But Sherlock couldn’t- he physically _couldn’t_ \- stop the words from leaving his mouth. They had been the only conscious thought on his mind the moment John started crying- they were his mantra, his blessing, his curse. Theirs.

Maybe they weren’t ready, maybe they would never be. But Sherlock couldn’t stand another minute of watching the best damn thing in his life doubt the sincerity of their connection.

 

The words were nothing but a breath.

Passing over his lips softly, rolling off his tongue. Traveling towards John, carrying everything with them. Everything that Sherlock had been, was, and would ever be.

 

“I love you.”

 

For a second or two, the world just went silent. The wind, and the cold, and the tears, and the forest- all silent.

And then, the purest sound cut through the silence, and the wind, and the forest.

John was laughing.

Laughing small and breathy while he was still crying and it was the most beautiful thing that has happened to Sherlock all month.

John laughed and hugged him so tight that he could feel John’s heartbeat against his own chest.

 

“Not how I imagined it would happen,” John almost chuckled, his voice still wet but distinguishably adult now. “Thought it would be a warmer atmosphere and I wouldn’t be snotty and gross; but I’ll take it.”

He sniffled and rubbed his cheek against the collar of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock felt him stay there, simply inhaling his scent.

“I love you, too. More than I can say.”

They stayed like this for a very long time.

 

John’s body was shaking a little and he almost sagged against Sherlock for guidance, his injured leg probably giving him a hard time.

“I’m sorry for doing this to you. I got carried away, forgot what’s really important.”

“S’okay,” John sniffled again, his voice faint; all the emotional extremes were clearly wearing his already exhausted body out. “I should’ve said something. But I thought I could get by, y’know? I thought I was doing fine until I suddenly found myself in the middle of no being fine at all. It caught me off-guard.”

He frowned and scrubbed his hand over his face; the skin now blotchy red and awfully dry-looking.

“I thought I was better, but clearly I’m not.”

 

Alright. At least John wasn’t doubting the sincerity of their relationship, which was good, but all things considered, had been the smaller problem to begin with (Deep down, Sherlock knew, John never really doubted them. He just needed a reminder).

This, however, was a different matter.

And would take more than a heartfelt confession to mend.

 

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, John. This is not something that makes you less of a person,’ Sherlock wanted to say.

Instead, he said: “Let’s get us home.”

John frowned at the lack of commentary but didn’t disagree with the idea of getting out of the damn forest.

 

Sherlock usually didn’t call in favors from Mycroft. At least, not favors in the general sense; there was usually a payback of one form or another involved; some case Sherlock usually was too proud to take, or some tiring leg-work.

Mycroft was surprised when his brother didn’t call to bargain but to ask for a quick ride home. Mycroft’s usual sharp tone softened considerably when Sherlock explained that they were lost and John was too hurt to walk any longer. Sherlock knew that despite all the terrible things that had happened between them, despite the petty feuds and the childish rivalry- at the end of the day, he could count on his brother. It had always been that way and it would always be that way. Just the thought had been enough to keep Sherlock from losing hope whenever things went from tough to really horrible. Mycroft had his back.

Maybe, one day, when John was okay with it, he would tell Mycroft. He had not even an ounce of doubt in his body that Mycroft already _knew_ or at least had a strong suspicion, but still. It was different actively telling him from passively accepting that Mycroft was aware of every detail of his life.

 

Not even fifteen minute later (Heaven knows how Mycroft pulled that off), they were bundled up in one of the black fancy government cars with the tinted windows.

John sank against the soft leather seat like a dead weight. Sherlock picked up the faintest crinkle of the pull-up and made another decision.

While they were driving, he sent a series of texts to Lestrade, explaining that he was taking some time off (Greg, unsurprisingly, was very understanding about it). Then, he went to his mind-palace to arrange a sort of schedule for their play-routine. He (alright, both of them) had been kind of messy in this regard, not working out a stable basis.

Sherlock looked over at John’s profile (his eyes were closed, but his whole body was twitching restlessly) and postponed the discussion of their scheduled ‘little time’ when John was less agitated and less likely to deny he craved little time at all.

 

For the rest of this day (and, as far as Sherlock had a say in this, the whole of the following day), he would make up lost time and lather John in all the affection and attention he deserved and had been denied far too long.

Sherlock tentatively touched John’s hand that was resting on the leather between them, wrapping his own fingers protectively around John’s. The action, however small it was, brought a tiny smile to John’s tense lips.

 

“What would you like to eat when we get home?”

John opened his eyes at being addressed and just stared at Sherlock for some seconds. The battle between his headspaces had clearly picked up again and despite his insecurity, Sherlock knew that John was well on his way to allow himself to be little. He just needed a little push in the right direction and lots of encouragement once he got there.

 

“I was thinking we could order some pizza,” Sherlock casually said, pretending to not totally set out a bait to reel little John in. While big John liked pizza, little John absolutely loved it (probably because it was fun to eat it with your hands and getting a little messy was part of the deal).

John bit his bottom lip and gave his partner the ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here’- look.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent question: ‘Is it working?’

The doctor rolled his eyes and looked away, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. It was totally working, but John tried to fight it.

 

The detective lifted his partner’s hand and pressed a warm kiss against the cold knuckles.

“We could get it at that one place that has this delicious peppermint ice-cream.” John’s favorite. Even when big and pretending to have responsible, healthy eating habits (because he was a doctor, ect. Ect.), John never resisted a hearty helping of peppermint ice-cream.

Sherlock watched in fond admiration as John gave him a sideway glance, his eyes big, and soft, and shiny. He was slowly getting his guard down and Sherlock could hardly wait. He had missed spending time with his little love.

 

When they closed the door behind them twenty minutes later, Sherlock immediately phoned the pizza place, giving John no time to backtrack the shy confirmation he had given about their dinner plans.

The doctor was gracelessly sprawled in his chair-not haven taken off neither his shoes, nor his jacket-and just sat and massaged his injured leg with jerky movements.

He looked even more exhausted and simply _done_ in the bright living-room light than he had in the dimly-lit woods.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and tried to push the consuming feeling of guilt to the back of his mind. Dwelling about his mistakes wouldn’t help the situation. He would have to take positive action; things went awry, and the past couldn’t be changed, but the present was ready to be molded and improved.

 

Sherlock stepped behind John’s chair and took the jacket off him (John let himself be manhandled), before kneeling in front of him to take off his shoes. John just looked at him blankly, his eyes half-lidden.

“I can do it,” he tried to protest weakly, but didn’t make a move to actually remove anything himself.

“Sure you do, love bug.”

John scoffed at the nick-name. “’m not little right now. I’m only going to be big from now on. Being little is dumb.”

 

Sherlock focused his gaze on John’s shoelaces, biting back the grin tugging at the corners of his lips. As worrying it may be that John was fighting his headspace so persistently, it was blatantly obvious that John had aged down at least a little bit since they last talked to each other.

 

“Is that so, hm?” Sherlock straightened and regarded his partner with pretended nonchalance.  “In that case, perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to be a little dumb from time to time.”

John gave him a look.

“You _despise_ dumb people.”

“I ‘despise’ the lack of trying. You, on the other hand, just set the parameters yourself. I’m merely using the terminology _you_ ’ve established. If being dumb entails having fun and getting cuddles, I don’t mind being dumb so terribly much.”

He gave John a triumphant smirk and ruffled his hair. “In fact, being dumb sounds quite lovely! I should try it myself.”

As expected, the doctor responded with a faint giggle, which he tried to muffle behind his hand.

“You can’t be dumb. You’re much too smart for that.”

 

Suddenly, John frowned slightly to himself.

“And not broken, like me,” he added quieter, his eyes focusing on his fingers, which he clenched and unclenched anxiously.

Sherlock’s heart jumped, before it sank right into his stomach.

“Nonsense,” he replied, lifting his partner’s chin so he had to look him right in the eyes. “You’re not broken. You’re _healing_. There’s a difference.”

John pressed his lips together tightly, trying to escape his partner’s intense and loving gaze. Sherlock didn’t budge.

“Then why does it hurt so much sometimes?”

“That’s part of the deal, love bug. I know that you know. You’re my clever doctor, after all.”

John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, obviously trying to find a way to turn this around, to get confirmation of the terrible things his insecurities and anxiety told him to believe. But not even they could compete with the sound logic Sherlock was offering.

 

“I thought you didn’t want to be my Daddy anymore. I…I thought you… you realized that this isn’t, that I’m not-“

The rest of the sentence was muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder, as he had pulled his partner into another tight hug.

“I’ll always be your Daddy. And your partner. And your best friend. I’ll always be those things just for you, because you’re my John and that means you’re everything to me. Even if I’m too far in my head to show you, never doubt that you’re everything to me.”

 

John shivered a little but hugged him back with as much strength as he could muster. His breath turned a little uneven and wet, but Sherlock pretended not to notice. Instead, he laid his cheek on top of John’s head and swayed them slightly, to calm his distressed little love down.

“But I’m just a big baby.”

“Don’t say that. It’s unkind and untrue.”

 

Silence, for two heartbeats. Then, nothing more than a whisper:

“I wet the bed, Daddy.”

Sherlock swallowed the nauseous feeling of guilt down once more. He was supposed to be relived at finally hearing John’s ‘little voice’, but it only made the pained confession so much worse.

“I know, darling. I’m sorry.”

When John spoke again, his voice was undoubtedly quivering: “And I… I had an accident when…when the guy punched me, I…I didn’t know I had to go and then I _just went_ and I…I…”

“Shhh. You couldn’t help it. And you had your pull-up, so it wasn’t that bad. That’s what they’re for, love bug. To offer some protection when you’re feeling unsure.”

“I shouldn’t feel unsure of having my bladder under control!”

 

The outburst was sudden and violent, and right after it happened, John started sobbing again. Sherlock felt terrible.

“John, love?” he started carefully, aware that he was addressing a very sensitive issue for both big and little John. “I think you should talk to Ella again. If it makes you this upset… I know it’s not easy and I know you’re embarrassed, but we might need some extra help to work through this.”

Right after he spoke, Sherlock closed his mouth and counted to ten, silently begging whatever deity was available to not have added fuel to the flames.

 

After a small eternity, John gave a final sniffle and nodded. “Please… but I don’t want to go alone…”

Sherlock exhaled the breath he had been holding. He could work with that. “Of course not, darling. I’ll be right there with you.”

 

With the most of an emotional break-down avoided, Sherlock considered his next steps.

Ella had forwarded him a useful website about age-play (that were nothing like the weird pages he had visited while he attempted to do some research), in which it stated that getting clean- like in a bath or a shower- could help to ease some anxiety and improve the bond between a caregiver and his little.

Their tub was big enough and Sherlock actually had purchased a bottle of bubble bath in a heat of the moment decision a few months ago.

It would do wonders for the chill and John’s sore muscles, too (not to speak about the soreness of his skin where the wet pull-up had set for an uncomfortably long time (another thing Sherlock tried not to feel too guilty about))...

And after all, they had some time to kill.

Maybe it would help John to settle comfortably into little space by the time their dinner arrived, so they could fully enjoy a quiet evening.

 

So, Sherlock took John’s face in both of his hands and rubbed at the new tear-stains with his thumbs.

“Look at you,” he cooed at his partner lovingly. “I think it’s time for a bath.”

 

**John**

A… bath?

They never did… a bath before. Or a shower, for that matter. Or… anything involving water and soap, really.

 

Before John could dwell on whether he liked the idea or not, he was already pulled to the bathroom and the bath was already running. He watched silently when Sherlock poured half the bottle of bubbles into the tub, creating a wall of foam in mere seconds.

Well.

No need to waste water …

And those bubbles looked kind of fun, John’s little side provided helpfully. He was still struggling to let himself slip; after all the built-up anxiety it was annoyingly difficult to let go.

 

But Sherlock smiled at him _like that_ , and he had rolled up his sleeves and he was kneeling by the tub, and it made John feel pleasantly _small_.

“Alright, in you get.”

In that very moment, John remembered a crucial detail. In order for him to get in the bath, he would have to get out of his clothes first. That thought made his stomach drop.

He wasn’t uncomfortable around Sherlock, not anymore at least. Sherlock knew every part of his body (quite intimately; the mere notion made him blush in his current fragile mind-set). They had been naked around each other enough, it would really be kind of silly to be shy around him.

 

However, John was wearing a pull-up right now. Sherlock had never seen him in only a pull-up. After all, today was the second instance that Sherlock saw him while he was wearing a pull-up at all.

Even _worse_ , a pull-up that was still wet and soggy and which had irritated his skin.

In a moment of absolute inward hysteria, John thought that Sherlock would _never ever_ want to have sex with him again (now the word made him blush furiously) if he saw him like that. This adult shame mixed with the childish shame about having had an accident, to create a humiliation-monster of gigantic proportions.

 

“Hey, you okay?”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s face was right in front of him, brows knitted together in worry. He was holding a selection out of their impressive collection of rubber ducks (which had started as a joke present from Greg and emerged in a small obsession on John’s part), and despite of being more embarrassed than he had could ever remember being in his entire life, a small spark of excitement welled up in John’s stomach. Bubbles _and_ rubber ducks? Awesome!

“Talk to me, is this alright? Am I overstepping a line here?”

And of course, Sherlock. Sherlock was, without a doubt, the best thing about all of this.

 

He _could_ just ask him to leave. Still have the bath. But it wouldn’t be the same without Daddy.

 

John eyed the floor and pulled at his shirt, subconsciously covering his mid-section although he hadn’t even taken his trousers off.

“’m in a wet pull-up,” he supplied, quite uselessly. Sherlock already _knew_ that, he had told him mere minutes ago. Still. It was everything he could say without fearing to start sobbing again, this time out of humiliation. And all this crying was wearing him out.

 

Fortunately, his Daddy was like the smartest person in London.

“I won’t look,” he promised, before turning his back to John to give him some privacy.

That was…. A surprisingly easy solution.

 

John lightly grumbled to himself about not thinking about that himself, while he felt his mind slowly growing fuzzy around the edges. Instead of fighting it, he held his breath for a second and allowed the bubbly feeling to surround him.

By the time that he was out of his clothes, had disposed the pull-up in the bin without looking at it and stepped into the warm bath water, he was well on his way to be fully little. It _had_ been a long time and John was ready to admit to himself that he really, _really_ needed it right now.

 

The bubbles covered his bits, so he wouldn’t have to look at the angry redness that was spreading over his crotch (not quite a rash yet, but not far off from it, either), which helped him to forget the uncomfortableness and actually enjoy the experience.

And it was _great_.

He got to play with the different ducks while Daddy took care of getting him clean. It was a lot more fun than doing it himself in the shower; and the warm water eased the pain in his leg- which had been turning a vivid shade of blue- to a small throbbing.

 

By the time Sherlock pulled the plug, John was so comfortable with himself that he allowed Sherlock to rub him dry with one of their ‘good’ towels (the big, soft ones). His Daddy tried to be polite and not look, but John knew that he was eyeing his bits and leg with concern. He wasn’t very good at hiding his frown.

John also knew, on some level, that he should be angrier with Sherlock than he was. He had been…not very good to him. For… a long time.

Yet, he tried now.

And he was amazing, right now.

And he loved John (that was the best part).

 

People made mistakes, all the time.

Their relationship was still so _new_ , all things considered, and both of them had made mistakes. Made them. Would probably continue to make them. But they were also working on getting them fixed.

 

“Pants or pull-up?” The simple question pulled John away from his adult thoughts.

He hesitated, but ultimately chose comfort over pride.

“Pull-up, please.”

“Alright, I’ll be-“

Wait. That wasn’t part of the deal. He couldn’t just _leave_. John bit his lip, wondering where that sudden impulse came from. He had never…been dressed before. And, perhaps more importantly, Sherlock had never put him in a pull-up (hadn’t even seen him in one, as established before). This was… kind of a big step…? But it also kind of… wasn’t? Dwelling too much on it made John’s head hurt.

 

He caught Sherlock’s hand before he was out of the door. Said Sherlock stared at it in mild bewilderment.

“Can you do it?” His voice was almost tiny and John absently wondered if he perhaps slipped a bit younger than usual, but decided not to think about that anymore (it would only serve to fuel his insecurities about being perceived as a baby).

Sherlock stared at him with a priceless expression on his face.

“Of course, love.”

John smiled.

 

**Sherlock**

Hours later, Sherlock awoke feeling groggy and disorientated. After a case, he usually slept like he was dead for an unhealthy amount of time.

This didn’t seem to be the case now, however.

He sat up making his joints pop and rolling his shoulder. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had fallen asleep on the couch. His back was protesting, and Sherlock had the insane thought that he was getting old, despite being in his mid-thirties.

 

Empty pizza boxes were scattered on the coffee table and someone (most likely John, who was no longer snuggled up against him) had turned off the TV (they had been half-way through _Hercules_ , when John fell asleep. Sherlock would never admit it, but he got so charmed by the story that he didn’t turn off the movie. It was the first time they were watching something that was ‘age-appropriate’ and Sherlock secretly hoped it would become a regular occurrence. He was kind of hooked on Disney movies now).

There also was a blanket draped over him.

 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” a warm, raspy voice (John’s ‘morning’-voice) murmured to his right.

Sherlock turned his head and smiled at his partner, who was nursing a tea and had apparently aged up quite a bit. It looked like he was no longer wearing a pull-up, though his cross-legged sitting position indicated that he wasn’t fully big either.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, leaning back against the armrest and placing a warm hand above John’s kneecap.

“A little after six. We spent all night crammed up together on the couch. Well, me on top of you, more accurately.”

“That’s why all my muscles are sore, then.”

“Charming.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and smirked slightly, allowing himself another minute or two of just enjoying this moment, before all the guilt he had pushed back yesterday would hit him again with full force. For the moment, he could talk himself into believing everything was fine and that there was absolutely not a huge amount of justified self-loathing coming his way with the speed of a freight train.

“Are we… good?”

Well.

It had been a nice fantasy.

 

“You tell me. Are we?”

John traced the rim of his tea-cup with his pointer finger, feigning nonchalance.

“Did you mean what you said yesterday? In the woods?”

 

_‘I love you.’_

“Why wouldn’t I?”

John shrugged, still looking at his tea. “I don’t know. Maybe it was just something you said to get me to calm down…”

“That would be… a really bad thing to do. Even I know that.”

 

John’s eyes met his. “You’ve done worse.” There was a small smile curling up the corners of John’s lips, but there was a lingering sense of accusation in the statement. All well-deserved, evidently.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that you’re sorry. Just don’t do it again.” Despite the confident tone, Sherlock didn’t miss the vulnerability that flickered over his partner’s face.

 

Instead of answering, he bent forward until he could capture John’s lips in a soft kiss. He felt John smile against his lips.

 

Forgiveness was a rocky road.

But Sherlock felt like they were well on their way.

**Author's Note:**

> Exciting news, people:  
> 1) The next installment will be the often-requested Babysitter!Greg fic (Hooray!)  
> 2) After that one, I have nothing specific planned; so I'm very open in taking requests. Just tell me what you'd like to read and if I'm comfortable writing it, I'll do it :D)
> 
> Thank you so much for your ongoing support, it means a lot <3 As always, leave some kudos, comments, and bookmarks to show me what you think :*  
> Take care, y'all
> 
> ***  
> You guys are simply the best, this work has received so much positive feedback already and I just want to tell you that this really makes me immensely happy.


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